


You're Not Alone In A Nordstrom At Night

by d__T



Category: Original Work
Genre: Experimental, I hope, Other, POV Second Person, consensual sexual content, horror (kinda), things just ain't quite what they seem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 12:57:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17960978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d__T/pseuds/d__T
Summary: You went to the bookstore and you had to pass through the Nordstrom to get there.Now you have to get back out.Good luck!





	You're Not Alone In A Nordstrom At Night

**Author's Note:**

> I have long wanted to write reader insert smut where the reader character behaves in a way that isn't completely alienating and is also at least plausible for any sex and gender. This is associated with my fic _You're Alone In A Nordstrom At Night_ which is plain horror and neither is required reading for the other. Please leave a comment if you have opinions about this!

You know you’re not wanted here. You can’t afford any of this shit. You don’t want to be here either but the only way you can reliably find your way out of this massive mall is through the Nordstrom, so you’re passing through the Nordstrom and trying to not look like you're lingering or coveting. You’re just trying to get to the bookstore before it closes and you’re late, so very late. Work went over, holiday traffic around the mall- well, money doesn’t seem to buy comprehensible parking lot layouts- and you got lost in the Weird Mannequin section of the Nordstrom. 

Again.

This time they’re made of angular wood blocks instead of that sleek vaguely sexy white plastic. You almost prefer the plastic ones; their faces reside on this side of the uncanny valley instead of the far side. Also, triangular titties. None of the clothes look good on the angles and this is taking the whole pointy female nipple thing a little too far. 

The feeling of unease persists all the way to the bookstore. Shops are closing up around you, gates rolling down and the last employee with the key eyeing you to make sure you’re not going to insist on keeping them open another minute. You just want your book, it’s been a whole week and it’s only Tuesday and the nice man behind the counter who loves your jacket says  _sorry, we can order that for you_ and you say  _okay_ and walk out anyway because plan A all along was to go home and cry and there’s a Nordstrom between you and that.

One step at a time.

The Nordstrom is bright, so bright, a beacon of toxic light in the encroaching dark of mall curfew. You make it inside, making good speed but your feet take you the way you came in and that means you’re in Weird Mannequin territory again. It’s like they  _want_ you. You don’t want them, you want your bed.

And that’s the sound of a rolling gate coming down. You freeze, except to look around. Which gate? You can’t see any of the doors, fuck. You gotta go.

There’s a touch on your shoulder and you turn to face it, apology for overstaying already on your lips and it’s a mannequin with its platelike hand extended. You must have bumped into it in your panic.

Thinking you came in through the jewelry area, you head off in the direction indicated by the overhead sign and the promising glitter of glass cases. It doesn’t look familiar now, but what the fuck do you know? It’s late and you’re freaked out. There’s a certain quickness to your step.

That’s when the lights go out. Not all at once; chunks all over the store, one by one, accompanied by the little pop of suddenly no electricity. The jewelry cases around you hold the last glitter of light and then it’s you, a couple of LEDs weakly illuminating a case of watches, and the occasional hey-we’re-here blink from the fire system.

_Fuck_ .

There’s a clicking. Not mechanical, like high heels on tile but light, so light. There’s someone else in here with you and that could be very good or very bad and you’re not seeing a lot of middle ground on those options. Or it could be the air handling.

It could be the air handling.

You carefully look around, moving as slowly as possible so that maybe you won’t be seen for your motion by whoever else is there, or, fuck, the alarm system. But the clicking seems to be approaching from behind so you take a little risk and look behind you.

There definitely  _wasn’t_ a mannequin there before.

It’s not like it’s close, but you walked right through there a few excruciatingly long minutes ago back when the lights were still on. You think you would have noticed it  _standing in the aisle_.

You’re running out of capacity to be more freaked out about things. You’ve got this nice little stress plateau going on and you’re gonna hang out on it for a bit as you stare at the mannequin and ignore all the other clicking sounds going on around you.

It doesn’t move.

Suddenly there’s an arm across your shoulders.

You squeak and jerk sideways from the touch. Your shoulder collides with something that’s far too hollow and made of wood to be a jewelry case and you know for a  _fucking fact_ that there’s not supposed to be a mannequin there.

You’re surrounded. They’re pressing close to you like they’re drawn in by your body heat. They’re jostling each other with loading sprite motions, a small chorus of wood block thunks and the occasional squeak of an ungreased metal joint surrounding you.

Experimentally, you push the one that’s trying to hold you away.

It tips, wooden feet clicking on the tile as it stabilizes itself. The others move in closer to fill the gap, pressing against your back and your shoulders. You could probably shove your way out of here, scattering them like bowling pins as you go. But the urge to flee is fading; overloaded and unharmed, you’re more curious than afraid.

They’re reaching out and tentatively patting you with their flat hands; they don’t have fingers and can’t grab you. Some of them are a little heavy handed like they don’t know their own strength but they’re not trying to hurt you. If they were gonna, they would have by now. Right? 

The gentle patting across your shoulders and chest and ass is somewhere between curious and aimless- they can't be intelligent, can they? They're made of polished hardwoods but all the touching has somehow plucked  _fuck_ out of your fight and flight reaction. Isn't this what they taught you in school, that all the different kinds of arousal use the same part of the nervous system? 

Well, you'd always joked about being a monster fucker to your friends. This isn't quite what you'd fantasized about but the opportunity is too weird to pass up.

You reach up a little to touch them- the idle night lighting is turning their smooth facets into thin reflections broken up by their small motions and their display garments. Thin t-shirts, this one has a crop top and there's an involuntary lewdness to the way the fabric hangs on the angles of its chest and the way your hand presses against it and accentuates the angles. And this one is wearing just a crossbody bag. You push that one away so that you don't get your arm tangled in the strap of the bag and two more clatter into the space left behind. 

The one wearing just a long tunic shirt gets audacious and presses up against you. You're not sure where to put your hands; what's solid and what's suggestion. You end up grabbing onto the tunic instead of the cube of its hip and it sticks a leg out for balance so you mesh your legs together and  _oh_. The thin thigh pressing up against your crotch is a relief despite being reminiscent of riding the corner of a desk in desperation.  

You're rocking on that hard leg, slick by way of varnished and polished wood, sticking sometimes from your own heat seeping through your jeans. Fuck, there's so many hands on you, so many of them pressed against you. They want this, whatever it is to them.

And fuck, you do too. The urgency of trying to escape earlier is still in your blood and the unfocused jostling desire all around you is winding you up quickly as you and the mannequin move against each other. Just a little bit more- unwilling to commit to messy hands, you shove the heel of your palm against the front of your jeans. A couple more thrusts and you've figured out how to not bust your knuckles on the hard body of the mannequin.

And then you come, surprised and head thonking forward against the hard chest of the mannequin. Your orgasm is clipped off, blunted by the sudden resurgence of the need to get the hell out of here. Getting trapped in a Nordstrom might be explainable but this. This is not.

You regain your footing and jostle through the mannequins. They don't seem to want to let you leave but they're not stopping you either. Their feet click behind you as you follow the dull glow of an emergency exit sign to a door with a crash bar on it.

You check behind you- they haven't followed you this far. Most of them are still clustered together and the few that trailed after you seem unwilling to leave their native habitats of clothing displays and industrially rough carpeting. Still, you prepare to dart through the door to make sure none of them escape like devious cats.

An alarm goes off as soon as you press the crash bar, screeching all of your plans right out of your head. You bolt through the door and into the nearly vacant parking lot, desperately seeking your car on the sea of sodium lit asphalt.

Having made it to your car, you slide down until your shoulders are below the edge of the window. Close enough to privacy; you wriggle a hand into your jeans to poke at the chafing wetness. It's real, you didn't just imagine that.

No one's ever gonna believe this.


End file.
